After Shank called, Sheryl put the car in gear and crept down the white tunnel of County 12, alternately checking the odometer and the shoulder at the side of the road. Had the radio going on country-western, some guy crooning about a woman who only smoked when she drank. Something to keep her sane. When she got past 1.5 on the odometer, she saw a red Jeep Cherokee idling at the side of the road, waiting out the storm.
Her first thought: Smart move. What I should be doing.
Then. Too close.
A minute later she caught a break, and the snow stopped. Still creeping, she eased around a turn and saw the edge of the green cabin in the trees. Thought she heard something. Was worried she’d hit something on the road. She tapped off the AM. Kept going until she drew up even with the foot of the driveway. Stopped.
Was supposed to wait here till he came out and waved her in…
What the fuck!
Shank? Yeah, it was Shank. In that white-and-black branchy coat flapping on his back. What was he doing, running across an open field, away from the house?
She pounded the horn. Probably not a good idea. He kept going.
Shit. Now what?
She put the car in drive and accelerated down the road, past the woods where he’d disappeared, slowed down, trolling, peering into the trees. Made another turn, pulled over. Tried to think. Decided she should turn around, at least get pointed in the right direction. After she carefully executed the turn, she switched the high beams on and off. Although it had stopped snowing, it seemed like the snow was still there, latent in the gray air, ready to jump out any second. Looking up, she saw the clouds had this weird orange glow, like something getting ready to bust out.
Dark everywhere she looked. Scary out here.
She forced herself to get out of the car and yell, “Shank, over here. Shank?”
Screw this. She hurried back inside.
Getting real nervous now, she palmed her cell, put it down, and flashed the lights again. Then kept them on. She lit a Merit. Waited. Turned up the heater.
Huh?
First she saw the branches shake along the road, snow flying off, then this…kid in a green coat…tumbled out and fell into the ditch not twenty yards in front of the Nissan. The kid scrambled to her feet and started running toward Sheryl. Arms waving. Yelling. Sheryl zipped down the window, heard the kid screaming, “Mom. Dad. Help!”
Oh, fuck me, now what?
Sheryl opened the door, got out, eyes darting up and down the road. The kid was now doing the same thing, wild eyes tearing around, looking at Sheryl, the car, the road. A girl, red hair coming out of a ponytail, stuff matted in her hair. She staggered the last few steps and threw herself on the hood of the car. Like it was a safe place. She was covered with snow, her trousers were torn, and she had a long bleeding cut across her cheek.
“Help. There’s a man with a gun. He shot Uncle Harry,” she panted.
Great. Who the fuck was Uncle Harry?
Sheryl moved forward and took the kid by the shoulders. Two powerful diametrically opposed emotions clashed in her chest; she felt an instinctive impulse to comfort her. And she wanted her to disappear.
“Jeez, kid, what happened?” Sheryl said, feeling the bone-deep shudders coming off the kid’s shoulders, into her hands.
“He’s in the woods. He’s after me,” the kid said, panting for breath.
“Okay, okay.” Sheryl tried to think. “He’s after you. How far away is he?”
“I don’t know, they got him,” she panted.
They?
“Hey, maybe we should get you out of sight,” Sheryl said, eyes darting up the road, then at the dense hostile trees.
“We should call…,” the kid started to say.
“No, we gotta hide you first. Get you outta here, someplace safe.” She turned, dashed back to the car, leaned in, and punched the trunk release. Saw the bottle of spring water in the dashboard caddy, plucked it up, and hurried back. “Here, drink this, it’ll help calm you down.” She thrust the plastic bottle into the kid’s gloved hand. “Don’t cry now.”
The kid bunched her forehead, blew a strand of loose hair from her face with a fierce huff, and said, “I’m not crying.”
“Okay, right.” Firmly, Sheryl gripped the shoulder of her jacket and walked her around to the back of the car. The kid started to resist. “Look, you said a guy with a gun. We gotta get you outta here. If he sees you in the car with me, he’ll be after me too. So you gonna hide in here.” Sheryl lifted the trunk lid.
“No way,” the kid said. She threw the bottle of water at Sheryl’s feet and started to back away.
“Sorry,” Sheryl said, pitching forward, throwing her arms around the kid, hauling her up, and falling forward with her over the edge of the trunk. Shit, the kid was strong. “This will be easier if-”
Then the kid punched her in the forehead with a soggy wet-gloved fist and almost staggered her.
“Fuck this,” Sheryl grunted and pounded the kid right back, stunning her enough to stuff her arms and legs free of the lid and slam it shut. As the kid’s feet beat a hollow tattoo on the inside of the trunk Sheryl ran back, yanked open the door, leaned on the horn. Listened to it echo into the still trees.
Tried yelling again, “Shank, Shank, over here!” into the gathering darkness. Wait a minute. Think. What if the person who’d been shot was still alive, was on the phone, calling the cops? Who’s they?
Not the time to be jumping up and down yelling.
Sheryl jumped back into the car, turned on the dome light, and checked her face in the rearview, to see if she showed any damage where the kid punched her. Seeing none, if you didn’t count the panic in her eyes, she drew her hand across her forehead, straightening her hair, and then, for one long second, she looked up and down the road. Reached for her cell, checked her slip of paper, and punched in Shank’s number, listened to it ring. Got the fucking voice mail of the person the phone had been stolen from. Oh, great. She dropped the phone, put the car in gear, and drove slowly, scanning the trees to the left. Stopped, waited a minute. Nothing. C’mon. Where are you?
Then she crept farther down the road, right to the edge of the open lot next to the green cabin. She began to shudder. The shaking started in her belly and worked up into her arms and her throat. If she’d learned one thing living her life, it was not to hang around the scene of a shooting.
Then she picked up a flare of lights up the road. She killed the headlights, really shaking now as she saw the red vehicle sitting in the driveway of the target house. Two people. Running toward the house.
That’s it. Sorry, Shank, but it looks like every man for himself.
Lights off, keeping her eyes straight ahead, not even looking off the road when she drove past the driveway to the green cabin. When she rounded the turn past the house, she switched the lights back on, accelerated, and reached for her cell and punched in the second number on the slip of paper.